


I Want To (Do Everything For You)

by Beed



Category: Steely Dan (Band)
Genre: Adultery, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Ficlet Collection, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, M/M, Musicians, Past Drug Addiction, Reunions, Sexual Repression, Switching, Time Travel, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24483781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beed/pseuds/Beed
Summary: Vignettes of various times and places, all involving Don and Walt.
Relationships: Donald Fagen/Walter Becker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. 1981

**Author's Note:**

> The year each piece is set in is listed as the chapter title, and if they are AUs they are listed within parenthesis next to the year! Each piece is a different chapter, so they are intended to be read separately, none relating to one another in-universe.  
> I would like to note that these were all written through 2016, I just tried to dust them off and edit them up a bit (there are a few left that need cleaned up still, and will be posted at a later date).

  
“You don’t care about me,” Walter says, and Donald can’t tell if it’s the receiver on the phone scritching and noisy, or if that’s heavy breathing-- crying.

“Now where do you get that idea from?” 

He catches himself sighing, and pulls the phone away to keep from setting Walter off. They’ve had calls like this, where Walt rings him for no reason and continues giving no reason by the time they hang up. It’s an entirely new thing, ever since Walt ran off to Maui and said he was gonna clean up his act and all that shit. And every time, Donald hates it, but still accepts the calls anyway, ginormous bill at the end of the month and tenseness in his shoulders to go with, extra _fuck you_ s piled on top of the insults Walter brings in.  
Donald just can’t help himself though, ever.

“You just don’t-- I’m all alone right now. You didn’t help me when I was with you, so I left, and you’re still not helping me. What else do you want me to make of that?” Walter’s voice isn’t distraught but low and stuffed, like he’s broken. It makes Donald’s stomach sink.

There’s silence for a long while, Donald scribbles mindlessly on the notepad next to the phone receiver; silence seems to be the best way to make himself be as palpable and sympathetic as possible to Walter’s vulnerable, withdrawing lachrymose thousands of miles away from New York. He swears he can hear a hiccup, or maybe the start of some retching. It feels like eons ago that he was dealing with Walter getting fucked up beyond repair, having to put up with it for the band. Now he’s a regular old charity case, listening in on these distorted sounds for the sake of being the picture-perfect definition of a true friend.

“How about I come out your way?” Donald finds himself saying. He continues, feeling a surge of hope in his own ideas, words ambling out before thinking. “I’ll fly in, and stay at your pad-- keep you company. I want to be there for you. Would you say I care if I do something like this, don’tcha think? Does that help?”

Walter agrees quietly, but sounds none the happier. They spend the rest of the hour on the phone in that static-silence.

Donald’s hope was gone as soon as it left his mouth.  
  


* * *

  
It took Don a few more months figuring out how this whole traveling _and_ staying thing would go down. He’s not used to taking care of these details on his own, for reasons obvious, but mostly because he hadn’t taken personal trips or anything like that for years as well, so he’d tried all on his own. Even when he had various girlfriends that had come second place to the band, he gave them enough leeway to make decisions on his behalf, though he often came to regret them.  
He tells himself that this time, he’s taking a long-deserved vacation with Walt, but he already knows this is anything but.

As soon as Don hashes out the details with Walter regarding his sleeping arrangements at his beach side place, he gets the distinct feeling he’d rather stay home.

Paia is beautiful, at least, and Donald almost forgets why he came here on the drive to Walter’s place. The clammy chill of his skin is completely gone and replaced with a warm, red flush from the humidity and blanketed heat of the sun. Off-handedly he thinks of Walter, shivering in said sun, sweating out all the toxic shit he put himself through. Then, he thinks of that crying and retching and whatever he heard Walter doing, with the static of the phone. Why do all that whining when you can sit out at the beach, on the dunes, climbing a volcano, any of that?

Walter looks a little thicker than Donald last saw him, cropped hair notwithstanding. It’s jarring to see his friend take on a whole new look, but the worst part is looking at him and trying to not pity him.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Walter says, eyes averting Donald’s, that short hair flopping along his forehead. Donald didn’t realize he’d been shamelessly gawking at Walt.

“Here I am. Sorry it’s not as soon as you wanted--”

Donald’s cut off probably by embarrassment, he figures, because Walter is mumbling at breakneck speed, head shaking as if to say _don’t bother_. He ushers Donald from the gravelly, hum-drum driveway into his home.

Those nimble fingers touch ever-so-gently at Donald-- one hand at his shoulder, and the other at his back, near his waist. It feels good, and he sort of finds himself melting, physically and mentally. He truly wants this to be a vacation, like he deluded himself into trying to think. And he wants Walter to be okay, and to be his friend again.  
  


* * *

  
“Do you mind if I...” Walter is gesturing at his pack of camels, grabbing his lighter anyway. 

“This is your home, man,” is all Donald supplies, leaning back into the patio chair.

Walter puts down the lighter with a resounding _clink_ against the little glass table between them. Donald looks up at him only to find that he’s invaded his space, his smell suddenly palpable. Clean as the soap he washes with, he takes showers more often to pass time, he says. Donald has a feeling he smells exactly like Walt now, since he ran out of his own soap weeks ago.

“What?” Donald is clasping and unclasping his hands together in his lap; it’s a nervous tic he can’t get rid of for the life of him.

Walter places his hands on each arm of the chair, getting closer, closer.

“Thanks for coming down,” Walter says quietly. “That was nice of you.”

“Hey, you’re welcome,” Donald blurts out. “Anytime.”

“Yeah?”

Donald wants to reply back, but his lips move to speak right when Walter leans down and plants a kiss square on him. Even though it’s this closed-off, simple and chaste thing, Walter doesn’t move on Don for a beat, and like hell Don doesn’t consider pushing him away. He catches himself melting into it pretty quickly, and practically beckoning Walter into his arms, lap, closer still.

But as soon as it starts and their lips align better and deeper, it’s over, and Walter is already leaning back into his chair that is very much separated by that little table. It feels like the grand canyon, and Donald can actually tell that his cheeks are red from the warmth of what conspired, and not from the afternoon heatwave.

So he sits, staring at the rickety wood decking under his feet, trying to will away the awkwardness.

“Why--”

“I know you don’t do the smoking thing anymore,” is all Walter explains, lighting up his cigarette as it lays between his lips. It doesn’t even make a fucking lick of sense, and Donald feels his heart threaten to squeeze up, as if somehow Walter was able to make a grab for it when he had leaned over Don and shocked him. He just keeps staring down at the deck, unable to figure out what to say, much less do.  
  


* * *

  
There’s one night that sort of bugs Donald: it’s really late, and he’d look at the clock to confirm his suspicions but it’d only make him more pissed at Walter. He doesn’t want to chew the guy out for having issues that need working out, and he knew what he was getting into, by offering to come all the way out to Maui in the first place.

But Walt is opening and closing the door to the bathroom, and it’s none too quiet. It’s interspersed with noises of frustration, or thought, who knows. And this goes on for about twenty minutes, now that Don's counting. So near its end, Donald is tempted to swing out of the bed-- Walter’s bed, as they’re taking turns switching between the bed and couch, since the place isn’t too furnished yet-- and bitch about the racket.

The slamming stops, though, and Don can’t tell which way the door closed last: in, or out?

The next afternoon, as Walter serves him up leftover, stiff breakfast pastries, Donald tries to give a passive remark at how the pastries remind him of his bad sleep. It’s not that he doesn’t have manners, it’s just he’s used to being pithy around Walter, kind of. He forgets why he’s here and what he should, and should not be doing, within these little pockets of domesticity that he stepped back into sync with that are a lot like their rooming, post-college salad days.

“I am _so_ sorry for disturbing your precious slumber, Donald,” Walter bites out, and Donald catches himself wincing, because he’s never noticed Walt giving him a verbal slap-back. ”I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I happen to be going through what some would call a tough time, and during this tough time, I find myself at a loss for---”

”Sorry,” Donald cuts him off, pleading over that condescending tone Walter is dishing out. “I’m sorry. Don’t.”

Don decides that picking at his pastry is about the same as picking at his ego, and just as uncomfortable as what currently transpires. By the time the croissant is more ribbons than it is edible, Walter pipes up again.

“I wanted to go into the bedroom, where you were, uh, I thought-- at the time, sleeping. I wanted to lay down with you. I just wanted to be held. That's all.”

Donald looks up at Walter, a little because what he’s saying is incredulous, but also because his voice is so gentle and vulnerable. It’s a softer tone than the broken whining of the man he was getting calls from a few months ago.

“You might’ve had a better chance sneaking in and laying down with me than waking me up by slamming the bathroom door,” Don supplies after an awkward silence.

Walter’s face is blotchy and red, but he’s smirking, and suddenly the day seems a little more hopeful than the suffocating discomfort it was before.

When Walter comes around the kitchen counter to lean in for a kiss, Donald makes sure his hands are firm on his own knees, hoping the tremble goes away by the time they part and continue on with their day. 

Neither of them find the nerve to speak on what’s happening out loud, like it’s some sort of spell. Or maybe a curse.  
  


* * *

  
They’re in Walter’s bedroom, side-by-side on his once-neatly made bed; the maid came in and left just over an hour ago. Before things got heavy, Walter joked that he’d call her and ask her to come right back and do a quick spruce up _since we’re gonna make a nasty mess._ It left Donald torn between conspiratorially laughing and whimpering.

Something’s playing on the radio, but for all Don is paying attention, the only noises in the room he’s hearing are Walter’s ragged breathing and his own stilted moans. It’s something he never figured would sound good, or titillating.

Donald’s never been in this situation before, with a man. Walter’s facial hair scrubbing against his face with all their necking is the most disorienting part, he finds. When they’re not touching each other, nor talking about touching each other, it’s not the same as it was between them, before. And Donald can’t parse it, yet, but he can feel the significant difference between slumming on the couch compared to going full lovey-dovey-homosexual-couple by sleeping with Walter. Unfortunately, it feels real good.

But in the moment, they’re face to face, erections touching with no shyness, maybe even the opposite of that with how Don can’t control the enthusiastic twitching of his cock. Walter’s keeping them connected with a warm, ultra-slick hand, and somehow that pumping back and forth and back is more sexy than seeing all the sordid details.

“Want more?” Walter’s voice comes out low, a deep purr. “I wanna fuck you-- can I fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” Donald hears himself, distant, like he’s in a trance. Walter’s control sparkles and shines in this new power dynamic between them, and Don’s life will never be the same for it, beyond getting all those kisses and perfect nights of sleep with Walt by his side. He likes all of it, or maybe he’s desperate, since it’s been months without his current girlfriend’s touch and presence. “Do it. How do we--”

Walter shushes him, knocking their foreheads together from his haste to kiss. It doesn’t matter, it feels perfect, and somehow Donald knows what’s about to happen will feel better-- he finds himself aching to go further, and the wicked smile on Walter’s face as he leans back and reaches for the lube practically blows Don’s mind when he climbs into his friend’s lap.  
  


* * *

  
Donald’s standing in front of the oft-ignored rental car on his last morning in Paia. He figured he’d spend half of these months toting around a sleepy, cranky Walter around the tiny island rather than frolicking and fucking on the three-acre land-- when he settles back home, alone, he figures he can spend that time being baffled as to why he came to Maui in the first place.

“So, here you go,” Walter says, placing two of Don’s suitcases in the trunk before pausing for a heavy breath. “I’m gonna miss my on-call nurse.”

Donald shakes his head, assessing Walter. He looks brighter, maybe, but that probably had nothing to do with him.

“Well, are you gonna kiss me or what?”

Before he can protest, Walter swoops upon him for a tight embrace, that thick mustache irritating his neck in the best way possible. So many nights it caused Don's skin to stay mottled and rash-like, and, shamefully, he liked being marked up by it.  
Donald gives up resistance within a second of being held to give a returning hug, palms flat, covering Walter’s shoulder blades.

“Oh baby,” Walter sighs, as if the world is crushing him.

“You’ll be fine,” Donald says. And it's true, the kid is perfectly fine without him. He loosens his grip on Walter. He needs to make his flight, and soon. “You can call, if you want.”

Walter gives him one of those goofy, toothy smiles as he separates himself from the embrace. “I don’t think I can give a good blowjob through the phone, but we can try. Hear from you soon, Don.”

Don gives Walter a dismissal wave, and a half-assed smile. He’s always hated saying goodbye. The conversations before, during, and after these affairs are tedious and follow the same phrases and questions year after year, with circumstantial changes hardly mixing up how they approach one another. Walter doesn’t do it any different than Don, and it’s always been true that they mirror each other without expending effort. Just, now, perhaps there’ll be more tension, or some sort of power play, if Walter keeps up his saucy promises and generous physical benefits. 

Don dejectedly thinks that maybe this arrangement wouldn’t be a bad thing to look forward to if Walter was a woman, but.

“See ya, Wally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout each ficlet I decided to change the names of Don and Walt’s family, girlfriends, and wives-- just trying to be as respectful as possible within my means, lol.


	2. 1993

  
Walter invites Donald to crash at his home while they put the finishing touches on his sophomore album, because that's what friends are for, Maui is expensive, he needs company while out here all alone on this tiny island, and so on.  
Sure, sure-- they’re nothing but excuses. Donald enjoys the gesture, though, and accepts with no fuss.

It doesn’t take but five hours after settling in the cozy, often-ignored guest room before he starts to feel ridiculously out of place. Walter’s made his home quite the nest for his little family.  
Donald finds himself missing Lizzy when watching Walt interact with his wife, misses Lizzy’s kids when seeing Walter's munchkins causing a ruckus-- and god, they ask him so many questions-- _Why is your nose big? Why is your face not fuzzy? What are you here for? Are you friends with mommy like you’re friends with daddy?_ and ask their parents many more after his turn is through.

Don admittedly gets a little jealous at how Walter navigates parenthood so easily, more so than he's ever seemed to treat his peers and workers. He'd take notes on this whole area of expertise his partner is unknowingly putting on a show for, but Don knows that he'll never compete with this. He basks in it, instead. It’s more up his alley, hanging back like this.

Getting older has its perks-- the threats and paranoias of life are still present, but it's become easier to cope with. Especially when Don’s in Maui, feet nestled in warm, soft sand, letting nature dazzle him with visceral pleasantries. Drinking beer and smoking cigarettes together is the new vice, beyond doing less work than should actually get done, but hell, if anyone deserves that piece of the pie, it’s him and Walt.

So it’s real nice, and brings good vibes. Donald feels his lips pulling upward without his permission; his joy is so abundant in the moment and even his brain knows this slice of paradise won't last and is screaming at his everything to savor it.

As the kids squeal and splash at the edge of the tide, not too far from _Daddy and Uncle Don_ loafing in the sand under a huge palm tree, Walter gives them a cursory glance to make sure they’re steadfast in ignoring him, before leaning over in Donald's space and stealing a quick kiss.

It's not something that Walter has ever really been prone to do. But the coy smile on his face says it all: _I missed you._

When Donald is in his little guest bed that night, eyes closed, he imagines that reality has splintered from the true universe-- that the real deal, what he knew before, is gone. All he can remember of it is that heat on his shoulders, waves rolling and Walter’s kids in front of him; still in their little made up worlds, gallivanting along the tide.

It- this whole odd experience, staying with Walter again, with all these _add-ons_ \- makes their hushed meetings vivid and wild, wilder than anything they did as youths with hungry dreams. 

There’s one night that Donald has to bite his own fist several times to keep from shouting, even against his lumpy, sad little guest-room pillow, until Walter flips him over and mouths those whimpers and moans into huffy quiet, still sliding in and out of Don with no dedicated pace, just a fierceness in each thrust.

After they cool off and separate from each other, Donald has to quiet his laugh. He feels young again. Before any of the money, hits, going platinum, all that shit.  
Donald expects Walter to laugh, too- just like he used to- until they both wake the whole house up. It would only make sense that Walter could get in on this joke without needing to be told, as if what they had was a palpable soulmate-esque bond that helped them communicate through some sort of invisible cups-with-strings.

But instead, Walter cleans himself up, gives Don a cursory goodnight, and goes to bed. His room is all the way across the house and downstairs, with his wife, naturally.  
  


* * *

  
Donald considers how it felt when they were full of stupid ideals and bumbling affection. Walter never made Don pick between having his cake and eating it-- living with Patty and him as a third wheel, no fuss, no questioning. Things were simpler back then. Or so Don thought, probably. 

When Walt rustles in the kitchen far from the guest room, tea kettle scraping against the worn-down stove at six in the morning, Donald feels exhaustion tugging at his brain, only now feeling comforted enough to get in some shut-eye.

It isn’t until later, in the afternoon, that Walter is nudging his shoulder to wake him. He can never tell if that gentle tone Walt takes on is supposed to be soothing or menacing.

”Get up-- don’t you think we should be working soon?”

Donald can’t argue with that. Working is better than musing on would-bes, could-bes, and, in some other wiggy universe in spacetime, _should_ -bes.

Hawaii isn't cold in its winters, thankfully, and Donald realizes too late that he's spent the last month prowling around the always bright, always pristine beach house in his skivvies.

When Walter feels good enough, he sure does run a tight schedule, with his pretty little lady as some sort of second-in-command. He wakes everyone (but Don) up, she does deep stretches and heads off to work, and Walt takes the kids to school after a little haranguing. Then, most importantly, he comes home to Don, wandering around half naked and contently disheveled, like a doped-up transient.

"You know, winter break is coming up soon," Walter menaces one day, apparently fed up with the vision of Donald that is him lurching around the place in boxer-briefs. "You'll have to find some way to look scummy without flashing the innocents-- _my_ innocents."

Said scum gives no fucks and continues on, heading to Walter's fridge with a wry grin like he owns the place. When it's just them two all alone in this sweet abode, it's hard for Donald to feel any other way than that.

Eventually, Don gives his fiance a quick call before it slips out of his mind-- _I'm fine, how are you, oh okay, sure, wow, really, yeah, love you too, tell them I said hi, love you, really, bye_ \-- and is about to change into something presentable for _the innocents_ when he bumps into Walter in the hallway toward his bedroom.

"Come here often?"

Donald scoffs, and he swears it's just for acknowledgments' sake. Walter takes it as an invisible invitation to harangue him, though, and shoves him against the hallway wall. Both of their pairs of glasses are on and keep them from giving in and kissing each other. Only their chests and downward touch together, but it’s more than enough, and the heat makes Don’s head feel fuzzy.

"Did seeing me in my scummy get-up do it for you, daddy?" Donald jokes, voice deadpan. He tries to ignore how Walter’s smirk falls so plainly, as if Don really did spear him by denying him. "Move-- I just got off the phone with Lizzy."

They go to the studio earlier than usual, and Walter is especially critical of everything Donald suggests or tries out that day, but that's fine. It only means when they get home and everyone else falls asleep, Walter is going to receive a lovely rain of blows to his face while desperately rubbing against Don's cock.  
  


* * *

  
They’ve been in the studio way too long for being at the last leg of their work. Walter’s spoiled him at this point, and Don knows he’s going to have hell when he goes back to the grind out in New York City.

“Great,” Donald says with finality, looking over the engineering panel full of knobs and sliders, as if it’ll tell him that they’ve just finished cleaning up the album.

“Right,” Walter agrees. He nods over at the two assistants that do fuck-all when the clock hits twelve in the morning. Don remembers having more energy even in his late twenties than these bums seem to have in any bone in their body. “I guess we’re done here.”

The drive back to Walter’s place is tense, if Don has to grasp for a way to explain the energy shift. Usually they shoot the shit about what to do in the studio for the day, or what they look forward to seeing when they’re done, sometimes making up stories-- bullshit they’ve always done, the kind of things that help them make up lyrics that they avoided up until it wasn’t possible to keep away from it. 

This time it’s just Walter’s cassette _du jour_ playing, some Thomas Dolby-- trite stuff that Donald doesn’t really enjoy as much as Walter seems to, the volume low enough that at least it doesn’t wear Donald down, but also makes him wish Walt would speak up for either of them.

It’s a solid forty minutes of the most painful near-silence Don’s felt in a long time before he can tell they’re pulling up to Walter’s home, the wheels’ rotations slowing, the thick crunching from the loose gravel the only thing Don wants to concentrate on.

Walter turns the ignition off, unbuckles his seat belt, but doesn’t open the car door. Donald can feel the pressure of one hand resting against the back of his seat. He expects Walter to go off on him, which has hardly ever happened in all the time he’s known the guy. Maybe today, though, right here, before Don fucks off back to New York.

The sound of a lighter scratching, flickering to life almost makes Donald jump. It’s awfully thoughtful for Walter to pick cigarettes every time they’re in closed spaces, but he somehow doubts Walter is considering his own personal distaste after kicking the habit himself. It’s a faux pas to smoke in front of your kids, he would imagine-- nothing to do with Don at all.

Walter gives one exhale before asking, voice gruff but not acidic. “Want me to drop you off at the airport?”

“Nah, a cab is fine,” Donald says. He’s hyper-aware that he sounds pathetic. He knows that Walter knows. He still doesn’t turn to face him.

He waits for a horrible explosion, all the things they’ve never said to just pour out onto the palpable tension-- and deep down he quickly fathoms a moment where they tell the truth to each other, and for some reason they find a way to work around the real world and be some disgusting but happy, filthy stinkin’ rich, musically successful homo power-couple. But in reality, the car is quiet, save for Donald faintly hearing his own heartbeat thumping like crazy, the sensation up to his ears practically.

Walter gives a few more exhales before admitting defeat.

“Alright, daddio.”

They sit together in the car like that, fucking dreadful silence still pervading. Donald would prefer at this point to hear Mr. Dolby’s crap experimental album again. Or better yet, the earth to swallow him whole so he doesn’t have to go back to real life with all his responsibilities that he made for himself.

Not even a month ago he felt bliss at being here, unattached like the old days-- even if he was a heel, at least he was a heel with someone who seemed to understand him. But Donald supposes that was a facade, and he knew it from the start-- just ignored it. And why not? Walter played along with him, made him feel safe even though they both knew better.

He’s sure Walter’s gonna get an earful from his loving, capable, fit, everything-that-Donald-isn’t wife tomorrow morning for housing a _friend_ for almost four fucking months, but he won’t let Donald hear a word about that.

He wonders what Walter would say in the heat of the argument. Would he defend Donald? ‘But, baby, he’s the reason why we hang loose these days!’

‘I’ve fucked him more than I’ve fucked you, are you sure you have jurisdiction here, sweetheart?’

Or maybe something more like, ‘I’m sorry, baby. I won’t do it again. You’re right, he’s a sack of shit. I don’t know why I let him stay. I don’t know why I let him walk all over me.’  
  


* * *

  
“I’ll call you,” Donald says to Walt as he hands his luggage to the cabbie. 

_Sometime. Not right away,_ he wants to add, mostly for his own sake, to hold himself accountable.

“Mmhm.”

Walter is noncommittal like that, can’t even say his goodbyes like a normal friend, instead right at home with staring into Don’s soul like it’s more proper this way, like everyone does this with their buddies. Having little Eric and Chey look up at him, too, reticent looks in their eyes at being stuck saying bye to _Uncle Don_ does not add to the surmounting levels of discomfort and relief ebbing in his head at getting the hell out.

 _This is why I have to let go_ , Don reminds himself. _I don’t belong. I know I don’t belong._

Walt’s wife has a sympathetic, pitying look on her face like she knows Donald’s past, present, and future-- and found the whole thing pathetic and weird. She has always been an anomaly Donald can’t wrap his head around, mostly because she seems pretty stable, especially cheerful, and the things Walter has attached himself to are usually on the fucked-up, trashy side. One of her sturdy, athletic hands rest at Walter’s lower back, the other atop Eric’s head.

Christ-- the nuclear family Walter used to say was ridiculous when the guy hardly had a notch in his belt. Such a sack of lying, hypocritical shit. How did Walter end up here? Is that all there is to life-- making a buck and having kids?

This whole freak show Donald’s been letting slide this whole time really roots him in his mantra-of-the-now. _I definitely have to let go._

“Have a safe trip,” Evelyn says for Walter, who is silently watching Donald.

Their sympathetic farewell waves and smiles scream ‘funeral dirge’, to Don. But he still gave a remorseful wave in return, a sneer that was supposed to be a smile, but whatever-- and then slid into the cab, which had faced away from Walter’s quaint little family and substantial beachside home.

Donald caught himself turning his head to watch the figures, those people that housed him, talked to him, questioned him, laughed with him and even kissed him, all disappear over the bumpy hillsides within half a minute.

 _I have to let go,_ Donald urges himself, feeling a nauseous type of sweat overcome him. _God, why can’t I let go?_  
  



	3. 1990

  
Walter wasn’t much good at surprises, but he figures he can try.

When Donald sees him in the peephole after a sturdy authoritarian knock, that door swings open so hard he’s shocked the hinges don’t fly off.

"Excuse me sir, but I seem to be lost--” is all Walter can get out before Donald practically hurls Walter into his home with a meaty grip on his arm, and damn is he tougher than he’d ever been.

“What the fuck, man,” Donald starts, and he sounds _so_ pissed. Walter laughs right in his face, more aroused than baffled.

Donald’s lip quirks only on one side, and before he speaks again he tries to mask his own laughter. “What is this? When’d you come in? No call?”

“I thought I’d drop in. A little birdie told me that someone is working day and night at a club- a seedy place, you know the type- trying to pay their rent.”

Donald finally lets go of Walter and gestures at his love seat, an uncomfortable looking, hardly used thing, cramped between two full bookshelves. Walter shakes his head and follows Donald as they make their way to his kitchen.

“Yeah-- yeah,” Donald says, voice distant as he rifles through his cabinets. 

There’s a silence while Walter just watches Donald search and shove around useless ingredients and spices; he already knows that there’s nothing in there, but he waits just the same. 

“I’ll tell you all about it over dinner, okay? I don’t have anything here.”

The place is crowded, and honestly forgettable in the current landscape of deli after deli after deli that pervades New York these days. But Don picked it, and he probably had a reason for it. At least, he hopes, because he knows his ex-wife will be very _disappointed_ at learning he doesn’t plan on following the diet they worked oh so hard on for years, now that they’ve finalized the separation.

All that time spent in a line doesn’t seem as long as it probably is since Donald gives away what he’s been up to for work these days. It’s nothing Walter hasn’t heard already over their phone calls, but the fact that Don is telling him face-to-face is an intimate gesture that neither of them would feel comfortable partaking in not too long ago, and he loves this development.

He’s admitted some of the more private stuff to Don over the phone, himself; his fairly amicable divorce, even some details on the divided time with his kids, loneliness and the like. But in public, it seems in bad taste, especially when it’s nothing good compared to the gems Don’s spouted, like: _I’ve got a girlfriend-- you might remember her from college, no fucking kidding, I feel like i’m in a pretty good place right now_.

All Walter’s got to say for himself is _I bought a lot of equipment for my studio again and almost overdrafted_ , and _I didn’t spend eight hours in front of the TV with my hands down my pants in a stupor thanks to the almighty chiba, I promise_.

“I thought you’d like this place,” Donald says while Walter’s scarfing down his sandwich. He gives no preamble before cutting to the point, eyes boring into Walter’s head. “My girlfriend says you should join us next week.”

Walter stops digging into the sandwich to swallow his bites and consider exactly what Don is suggesting.

“You don’t _have_ to,” Donald adds on nervously.

“Did she want this, or did you want this?” Walter tries, fingering the worn napkin next to his plastic food basket. “Let me guess--”

“The audience wants it,” Donald finishes for him, and he notices there’s a smirk on his face again. He hides it behind his cup of coffee but it’s there, mostly because Don’s mouth is so big.

“Hmm,” Walter feigns consideration. “They really want to trash one of your big players to see me on the stage, dicking around with an old friend? Sounds like a good deal from where I’m standing.”

“Maybe you can pay your rent on time, too!” And Donald’s soft laughter is betrayed by that sharp smile, all teeth now.  
  


* * *

 _  
Well _ , Walter finds himself thinking, appraising Don’s new squeeze, _she deserves better._

The introductions and pleasantries had come and gone, and she’s asserting herself as a modern woman, voice authoritative and posture tall-- though she’s pretty petite. Walter doesn’t blame all the musicians hustling along to her _suggestions_. Anything to make money these days. 

He wonders if her family had any connections in the business in the days gone by, or if her college degree truly paid off. Walter even wonders if Donald cares about any of this-- of course he does, but, whether the man would admit to something like that is another story.   
Walter doesn’t goad him, and the last time he did probably was when he was twenty one years old and high on god-knows-what. But a girl like this isn’t out of Donald’s range of tastes, and it perplexes Walter that his partner would let the charade of her walking all over him last more than a year. He would know, he’s been through all of the trysts, and even stood and watched some of the girls stomp out of their apartment, a wicked smile on both of their faces as the door would slam and Don would rush to lock it.

“Knock it off,” Donald admonishes behind him, whooshing the reverie out of his mind like blowing smoke out of a room. 

Walter turns to look at him, displacing his elbow off the sticky table, hand off of his chin, unfolds his legs. He tries to give Don a kind tone, as if he thinks Lizzy is someone worth keeping and fighting tooth and nail for, though, really, he doesn’t care too much. 

“Guilty as charged. Congratulations, Donald.”

“Thanks.”

Donald walks around Walter to come up to Lizzy, and Walter can tell he’s got a bit of pride in him now, with the way his chest is a little more puffed up than usual. He emulates the same scenario that played out with him and Walter not even a minute ago; startling her is more easy to do than it had been for Walter.

Walter finds himself smiling, watching unabashedly, until she turns fully and is facing him, watching back in turn. Suddenly, he feels small, and _very_ creepy. But all she does is wave, and Walter gives her a small smile and nod of the head.

When they give their theory a go and see if the crowd in the venue will react kindly to Walter’s staged reintroduction with Don, they’re met with astounding, deafening approval. It’s baffling to see the people that supposedly enjoyed their work together act so crazed, just to see him and Don in the same room. It almost feels like Lizzy cooked this part up, too. 

The whole band slowly shuffles away from the tight-knit platform that makes up their stage, and Walter tries to ghost off to one of the seemingly ignored dressing rooms in the far back of the building. Donald catches him anyway, and Walter actually finds it to be an honor to be genuinely chased after by him, of all people, as if all his life he hadn’t done the chasing after Don.

“Different than you remember, right?” Donald’s breathing heavy through his nose, sweating like a hog, and shockingly, happy about it all. “It’s just better, you know?”

“Sure,” Walter agrees noncommittally, adjusting his glasses and shrugging out his button-up Hawaiian shirt. Truthfully, he’s hot, it’s muggy in here, and he feels dead-wrong. But the check is about as fat as when he produces tracks, and that takes _months_.

Donald nods, as if he can’t read Walter’s body language and face. He knows Donald knows, but fuck if he cares, Walter thinks. The guy’s just happy that he’s getting all this uproaring attention for _coercing_ Walter to join in, and he can plonk a few chords, his girlfriend ready to pounce on him when he gets done, congratulate him even though she orchestrated the whole thing or whatever.

“We should do this more often.”

Walter doesn’t protest. He just eyes Donald with that withering look on his face. Sometimes the two-faced act is insufferable.  
  


* * *

  
They’re pressed against each other, on their sides in the middle of the sea called The Hotel’s King-Sized Bed. He said to Don’s manager he’d make sure Don got his sleep, especially after Don guzzled down half the bar and receded in on himself the rest of the night, but he knew _this_ is what would happen in the end.   
Whether it was the first day or the last, hours before he had a flight to catch or like now- in the middle of his month here- Donald and him would find themselves tangling up in each other.

“Do you mind if I--”

“Can you--”

They both start and stop together, and after a brief moment of taking it in, they laugh.

“Sorry,” Walter starts, and Donald can’t help but speak at the same time again, anyway.

“Oops.”

They just laugh again, and Walter can feel one of Don’s hands roaming at his waist. His breath smells tasty, like whiskey and coke. He remembers wanting to indulge himself earlier tonight, having no one-- well, just his ex-wife-- to stop him. He decided to use some newfound restraint after the whole breaking-the-diet riot, but seeing Don all loose and grabby makes him a bit jealous.

He remembers being that type, all over anyone and everyone that wanted him, not even five years ago. Being out of that mindset, he can see the appeal of a loose and fast, eager-to-please and be pleased type.

“Thanks for coming out,” Donald says in a dulcet tone, like he’s trying to be an emcee, all hospitality with a facade. He’s paused, even his idle hand is stopped at Walter’s chest, like he’s in deep thought.

Walter pauses as well, interested in whatever grandiose falsity Donald wants to butter him up with. But Donald just hiccups, and Walter can’t help but laugh at him.

“Oh, fuckin’-- c’mon,” Donald is laughing again, too. “I meant it!”

“Keep quiet, you lush,” Walter murmurs, his laugh dwindling to a persistent chuckle. Don’s smile is so soft compared to usual, and Walter’s heart stutters. “You can keep touching, though. If you please.”

He knows he should let Don get some sleep, but he remembers how from getting his plane tickets, to sitting in on Don’s shows all week, to visiting Don’s place, to joining in on the show tonight-- his nerves had been tied between wavering and singing to touch him. To be touched. And most definitely something more than a simple game of grab-ass, too.

“Okay,” Donald whispers happily, and rolls on top of Walter with no grace. Walter grunts from the lead weight of a drunken middle-aged man, but is pleased to feel that distinct pressure of a half-hard cock along his hip.

Donald’s arms are placed on each side of Walter’s shoulders to help push up, and he quickly descends back down with his mouth pressing to Walter’s neck, more nibbling and licking than kissing.

“Ah, Don-- Don,” Walter whines, ducking his head, shoving at the sloppy drunk slobbering on him.

Donald lets himself get pushed, and he still has that dopey soft grin on his face when he comes up. He flings himself onto his back, flopping onto the thick soft comforter of the hotel bed.

“Just show me what you want, okay?” He’s given up on whatever half-cooked idea was floating around in his head to let Walter take over. _As usual_.

Walter looks down at Donald’s pants, if only to hide his smile.

“Sure. You stay there.”

Walter makes quick work of taking Donald’s pants and briefs off. He looks funny with his button-up shirt still on, those rail-thin legs of his not matching with his trunk waist, but the guy’s drunk, and Walter’s not around enough to afford being picky about aesthetics. Donald’s still half-mast, as if he’s not entirely up to speed with what’s about to happen.

“Can you suck me off?” Donald tries, voice polite and hospitable again. 

Walter stays silent, as if considering, but his mind is already made up.

“Nah, nah,” Walter finally says, leaning in between Donald’s thighs to unbutton his own pants, shrugging them and his boxers off quickly. It’s been so long since he’s done anything with Donald, he didn’t know when his nerves started to kick in but he figures quashing them down with actions is his best bet.

Donald grabs at Walter’s arms as he leans down onto him, their hips and thighs warmer than the room when they meet. Donald sighs in relief.

“So far so good, huh?” Walter asks before spitting on one of his palms, his other hand pressed against Don’s shoulder for leverage, their places traded from earlier. “Hope you’re ready.”

Donald thrusts up against Walter’s cock at that promise, as if showing his willingness, and makes a quiet moan of appreciation. It doesn’t take long for him to rise to the occasion, thickening up considerably at Walter’s slippery grip. The obscene, wet squelching noises that come with the territory are muted quickly as the spit works into their pushed-together cocks.

“Here,” Walter demands, his once wet hand outreached to Don’s face. Don spits into the waiting hand, and Walter works quickly to get them slippery again.

They’re working in tandem now, wordlessly thrusting together, although Donald’s movements are more stuttered than Walter last remembered, less to do with his drink intake and more to do with wanting to come. Walter brings one of Donald’s hands down to keep their cocks in a grip together while he takes lead, both arms now boxing Donald in, and his hips rocking against Don’s in a steady, rough pace.

Donald is breathing heavy, his grip on them faltering, obviously unable to keep up with Walter. He comes to a slower pace when Donald starts moaning in more protest than pleasure.

“What,” Walter breathes out. He doesn’t remember this being so tiring, and finds himself wanting to just lay on top of Don and hope the pleasure will find him.

“Fuck me,” Donald says, and he sounds so desperate.

Walter perks up, pushes off of Don’s hips, as if it’ll help him make sure he heard correctly. “What?”

“Fuck me? Just, fuckin’--” Donald tries again. His face is flushed, and Walter only assumes it’s equal parts exertion as it is shame. “Please.”

Walter scrambles off the bed to where he shoved his pants onto the carpet, rifling through the various pockets for his wallet. He knows he seems eager, and why not? This has _never_ happened. He doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, whether it’s the whiskey in Don’s system talking or, for some reason, him having feelings of pity for Walt-- it sounds good to him to get in.

“Hey, I heard it’s, uh, no good to put your condoms in your wallet,” Donald is saying from his spot on the bed. His tone is bemused, and he doesn’t sound bashful at all, probably because he enjoys seeing Walter fumble. “Just come fuck me.”

Walter doesn’t say anything, returning back to the bed, tossing the condom next to Donald before looming over him again. Donald diligently spits in Walter’s extended hand again, and spreads his legs a fraction, almost coquettishly, if someone like Don could conjure up that imagery.

“More,” Walter says expectantly, and Donald brings his legs up and further apart, feet flat on the mattress. His cock is half-hard again, and Walter feels a little guilty throwing the mood for his partner, considering he’s still roaring to go, feeling wet enough even after their mingled spit has dried up. 

Walter puts his hand to use, smearing Don’s spit around his hole without grace or gentleness that he’d use for a partner of the fairer sex, and that seems to put some fire into Donald anew. He doesn’t give away much with his voice or face, but Walter can feel Don push back against his fingers, tiny wiggles of his hips making his hole press firm against his fingers, trying to suck him in, and when Walter uses his other hand to grab at Don’s cock, he feels it thickening again.

He hears himself breathing pretty heavy, hear’s Don’s breaths coming in shorter and louder now, and doesn’t hesitate to lower himself against Don’s pliant body, his weight immediately affecting those short breaths into loud huffs. Walter’s experimental rubs leave both of their cocks wetter than before, all that precome smearing in his frenzy. But it’s probably the two fingers he’s worked into Donald’s ass that’s got him starting to gasp here and there as Walter keeps humping against him up top.

“Okay, okay, just--” Donald starts, and Walter interrupts for him.

“Relax; help me with this.” He’s gesturing at the condom with his head, and Donald petulantly snatches the thing up and tears at the wrapper. Walter eases up on the pressure he’s put on them both while Donald perfunctorily rolls the condom over his cock, and hell if that doesn’t excite and make him nervous all over again.

“Fuck, alright,” Walter murmurs more to himself than Donald, even though Donald quietly agrees with a moan after Walter’s fingers slip out of him. “Tell me if--”

“Don’t worry,” Donald interrupts, and he sounds eerily sober. Walter thinks nothing of it, spitting into his palm again and giving himself a nice sloppy stroke along his shaft before he lowers himself further than their usual position, slotting nicely between Donald’s still-parted thighs.

When Walter aligns himself and starts entering properly, the tightness enough causes him to stutter and lose his bearings. If he’s not careful, he’d find himself performing solely on sensations for himself and less for Donald, which shouldn’t be the point of this at all, if there needs to be a point. But Donald seems pleased enough with Walter’s approach, his hands roaming all over Walter’s arms like earlier, and voice quietly giving away breathy sighs.  
Walter pushes all the way in, though he’s slow about it, if only because of how tight Don is, tighter than anything Walter has had the pleasure of getting himself into.

“Yeah,” Donald assures Walter when he’s so deep in him that he can bury his face into Donald’s neck. The whole world could be in flames and he wouldn’t pull out of Don for anything. He’s tempted to tell Donald this, out loud, right then and there, but he figures it would be in bad taste.  
  


* * *

  
“It was nice,” Donald admits. He’s concentrating on buttoning his shirt. He could be talking about anything, but Walter has a clue about what sort of subject Donald _wouldn’t_ explain in full detail for the sake of being thorough and correct.

“If you ever want me to indulge you again, don’t hesitate to ask,” Walter says. Don dismisses him with a wave and Walter considers, then responds after a brief silence. “Nice doesn’t cover it. That was--”

“Different?”

“No.” Now Walter is the one to dismiss with a lazy hand wave, but this happens often, and neither of them take it as an insult. “No, it was great.”

“Great,” Donald repeats. He’s completely given up on buttoning his shirt to pay attention to Walter’s musings.

“What do you want me to say, Don? It’s not everyday that you,” Walter pauses to figure out the right words, knowing that Donald will react no matter what. “That _we_ tumble into that, er. Situation. But hey, I liked it. So, thank you for that.”

Donald just looks down at this shirt, back to buttoning. It’s a sign that Walter didn’t say anything wrong, but also nothing acceptable enough to respond to. It’s not very satisfying, but he can’t complain after what happened last night. 

He hops out of the bed and gets up, snags his clothes off the floor and wriggles his way into them with a little help in keeping propped against the lifeless, forgettable hotel wallpaper. He’s gotta go, and Donald gets that, Walter likes to think. He knows more than anyone else there’s a difference between what they do together, versus what they do with everyone else. One’s like some splintered dream that’s only reachable when the stars align, and the other is reality, worth working through if only to get those quick moments of heaven.

Walter opens the door to Don’s suite after allowing him to run and hide in the bathroom-- he’s off to return to his own room and make some calls, like telling his kids that he’s coming home soon and misses them. Normal things.  
  



	4. 2000

  
It doesn’t take but a full day of lounging in NYC with some well-needed quiet before friends and friends-of-friends come for ‘quick visits’. These things aren’t quick-- they take hours, sometimes even steal the whole day. By the end of every night with different friends, friends-of-friends, friends-who-are-actually-assholes, and women-he-flirted-with-but-realized-he-wasn’t-interested-but-they-won’t-leave-him-alone, Walter is exhausted of this _New York minute_ shit. He loves this city and some people in it, but it makes him miss his place in Paia, where everyone is slow and fairly private, respectful by comparison.

Him and Donald are separated for a solid three days, though they’re in the same place every time, consenting to being whisked from lowkey bars to someone’s house and so on. Walter’s tried to cut back on drinking, he swears, and he forgets how easy it is to get swallowed up into the fun of social drinking now that he’s back in the belly of the beast with no support system to smack his wrist, or gently remind him that it isn’t a good idea. His liver especially screams for mercy, and to think it’s only been three damn days of a surprise bacchanalia! Walter doesn’t wish for a kinder system, as it was his healthy liver that led him to ruin and wreckage in the first place, back in the day. But it would’ve been nice to be made of sterner stuff, like the rest of his friends-- like Don, who can throw back with the best of them and keep his put-on cool guy facade.

“Wanna get out of here?” A very familiar voice whispers in Walter’s ear, breath sending a tingle down his spine involuntarily. If he wasn’t sloshed he probably would’ve jumped.

“What?”

Donald sighs, and steps out of Walter’s personal bubble. He points at the door, even though there’s about six bodies standing in the way of it.

“Oh. Well, sure, why not,” Walter cedes, lurching his way out of the condo- somebody’s, probably some important guy him and Don’s age that acts like he wasn’t always made-money-- and he doesn’t say bye to anyone, because Donald does it on behalf of him. People like Don more anyway, so Walter will get bonus points the next time anyone calls him up when he visits the town again, just for having Donald be his lovely assistant.

The cool air that blasts him as soon as the front door opens has him moaning in ecstasy. Donald rolls his eyes and walks ahead of him, off to hail a cab to get them home.

The cabbie keeps eyeing them, trying to assess them. Walter wants to snark, _seen us anywhere, huh?_ , maybe even holler out a few melodies of their so-called hits. The thought alone causes him to giggle, and Donald, a mile away somehow in the backseat with him is now glaring at him to stop.

“What!” Walter demands at Donald.

“C’mon,” Donald says as evenly as he can. It comes out whiny anyway.

“You’ve seen us somewhere, haven’t you?” Walter addresses the cabbie, and makes sure his voice booms-- it’s the voice he loves to use on the studio lackeys and assistants who’re new to _the biz_ and definitely not fit for the gig.

The cabbie suddenly acts like he wasn’t ogling them, large eyes strictly on the road. Walter busts out laughing at the reaction.

“Christ,” is all Donald can say. He sinks lower into his seat as Walter’s head is thrown back, laughter barking out of him until he wheezes.

The next day, far into the afternoon, somehow, Walter is sitting at the edge of his hotel bed, trying to think about how segmented his life has become, with his nagging, brooding wife still in Maui, and with his kids who constantly beg him to come down to NYC with him for no reason other than wanting to make his business trips even more stressful. It’s segmented, yes, but also kind of eerily similar to everyone else out here on the mainland, and Don makes up his wife one-for-one, and all the so-called friends and coworkers definitely feel like begging kids, at times.

“You’re such an asshole, man,” Donald gripes at Walt, pulling him out of his misery just to thrust him into a new type, handing him a cup of tap water.

“I know!” Walter groans, and it’s a croaky, whispering thing, but it feels like he’s screaming his head off. He buries his head in his hands, ignoring Don’s proffered cup.

“I mean, I thought that was exactly on-par with the behavior of a teenager after his first beer-- from start to finish.”

 _Thanks, my life is a joke anyway_ , Walter wants to say, but he’s too busy rubbing his head all over.  
  



	5. 1969 (time paradox)

  
Donald, at the ripe age of sixty eight, finds himself back in the year 1969 after a rough nap. Notwithstanding the massive headache of dealing with hippies all over again, he has nothing in his pockets and no idea how he went back in time, or how to get back to the present.

The only place that he can safely run away to is wherever Walter may be, and with the year in high swing, he knows exactly where to go: their old school.  
  


* * *

  
"I haven't exactly done this before--" Walter's voice is so crisp and demure compared to the thick, commanding droll Donald had become accustomed to in their old age. 

Donald just smiles, and holds out a hand. Walter takes it with no question, but his severe expression deepens. He's thinking long and hard about this, as he should. What kind of spirited young man is he if he's letting himself into the arms of some nasty old lech?

"It's real easy, baby," Donald croons after giving Walter a gentle pull into his lap. He goes without resistance, and seems to know just where to sit and how, crawling to press his tiny ass flush along Donald’s wider, softer hips. 

"I'm going to finger you a bit. Then you're going to get needy for something bigger, and that's when I fuck you-- well, you're going to sit on me and move, but we'll jump that hurdle when we get there, alright?"

"Oh," Walter says softly. “Okay.” He's already squirming in Don's lap, stirring his cock awake. Those long thin fingers are wound tight, fisting Donald's shirt and keeping them close, near to kissing. Walter’s lips had always looked so soft and plush, ready to be thoroughly used and enjoyed, but Donald had been pretty damn shy, much less in denial about enjoying men in any capacity. To have Walter openly accept him like this is a bit of a mindfuck, but he’s not ungrateful to it.

Donald had fooled around with younger types throughout his whole career as a professional musician. Some would say a rockstar isn’t truly one without the groupies throwing themselves at you. It was never as easy as it sounds, but when girls- and a few guys- did come to him, it was satisfying in a way that normalcy can’t provide. A wife won’t worship you because she knows too much about you, and your long-term writing partner won’t praise you endlessly in a hope to satisfy all because they want something from you in return. Eager youth is so heady to have control over in this manner, there’s no denying that.   
But to have Walter especially-- being able to be back at where it all started, in the 60s, with a fuller perspective-- and having that ability to impress and bring his partner, looking so dumb and young, in his lap and wanting it so bad, is equal parts humbling and exciting to Don.

“C’mon now,” Donald hears himself distantly, and damn if he isn’t wanting it bad, too. He can only imagine how tight Walter is, all small and skinny and inexperienced like this. It’s been so long since he’s been privileged with the honor of fucking a virgin, on account of kids these days running to the finish line much faster than he ever remembered, like Walt, here. 

His hands aren’t roaming along Walter’s body anymore, fixated on groping and rubbing along Walter’s inner thighs, his bulge, mapping out how little he is, just from their ages alone. Old enough to know the ins and outs, but not much else, and Donald is almost giddy with the thought of blowing Walter’s smarmy, too-smart-for-his-own-good brain.

“I thought about fucking your cute little mouth, but we’ll do that some other time.”

“God,” Walter moans out, breath already coming in heavy. _He’s dying for it_ , Donald thinks, _he’s so young and he has no idea but he needs it_. “You have-- a, a way with words, Donnie.”  
  


* * *

  
“Can you believe that, when you get to be my age, you’ll have some grandkids ‘n shit?” Donald has given up trying to say he belongs in this time period long ago. Besides, he was a dead giveaway looking so disheveled compared to the rest of the old fogeys around town; his trust in Walter was in well-stock anyway, because the kid is just gawping at him at being relayed all these secrets from the future.

“You’re kidding, right?” Walter says in a pretty embarrassing timbre. He coughs. “I mean, how many are we talking here-- I, uh, got married and--”

“Oh yeah... That reminds me,” Donald intercedes as he always does around Walter. It never feels imposing, and when they get to talking like this, he really feels twenty again. He doesn’t pay attention to how he takes up more space on their dinky couch, how Walter usually curls up to him like this, like Don’s some sort of additional furniture. Hell, how fat he is, he might as well be. “You got married, twice. It wasn’t bad, though, you came out from the first one fine.”

“Alright, if that’s true- and let’s say it is, because you’ll argue with me otherwise-” They’re both smirking at each other on the downbeat as Walter continues, “What’s my wife like? And the kids-- God, alright, grandkids, too, what--”

“Calm down. I don’t wanna give away _everything_ , y’know. I think that’d, like, fuck up the future or something, I don’t know.”

Donald can tell Walter wants to protest, but hearing about having a love-life must’ve rocked his tiny world. He continues on to assuage Walter’s fears. “I mean, we’ve both read enough about that sort of shit, right? Bet you those wacky little sci-fi novellas hold the key to all this time travel shit. I’ve already said enough, I have.”

Walter is just looking up into Don’s eyes, mouth agape like a fish. He nods in agreement before taking off his glasses, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion and leaning closer and closer to Don and his obstructive pot belly. He doesn’t let go of his tenth cigarette of the night for anything as he lounges.

“I can believe this, somehow, but...”

“You can’t at the same time. Hey, me neither. It’s nice seeing you like this, it really is. But I’d prefer to go back to...” Donald pauses, trying not to give much away. _I want to go back to Lizzy, go back to my fucking laptop, of all things. Better beds and couches-- that’s an important one with a back like this._

He catches himself sighing, deciding against admitting the sad, pathetic details. “I don’t belong here. Not anymore, man. Been there, done that.”

Walter’s managed to make himself even more comfortable, draped along Don’s outstretched body on the couch. He makes sure to blow the cigarette smoke away from Donald’s face, as he had been gently chided into being careful with Donald’s old raggedy lungs-- before laying his head on Don’s flabby chest.

“Sorry,” Walter says. His voice is muffled into Don’s shirt.

“It doesn’t do any good to say that. Come on,” Donald shoulders the slinky thing draped on him. “Just, uh, let’s do something nice, in the meantime. Suck me off?”

He feels Walter’s snubbed nose against his shirt nodding an affirmation before he watches all that soft long hair slide down, down, down.  
  


* * *

  
“Hey,” Donald questions with that insincere lilt he just can’t stop if he tried. “You’ve never asked if I have a wife. Or kids.”

Walter looks up from rolling his joint, and shrugs. “Why should I? You obviously don’t have an inclination for it.”

“ _What_?”

An acerbic smile lifts Walter’s youthful face as he licks the joint and reaches for his lighter. “Donnie, you, uh...”

Donald glares as his nubile partner scoots closer to him on their ratty couch, as he always does. It’s usually when Walter wants something; affection, money, work. He’s so fucking tired of these interactions and yes, he understands the odd, but unsurprising change of circumstance that he’s gone from being tired of that old fat fuck to tired of this young skinny fuck. “You’re obviously a fairy. Don’t kid around.”

“Okay, now how do you figure that, Walter?”

Walter scoffs, smoke pushing into Don’s face. “I don’t mind! But it’s true, isn’t it? We do _things_ together. I mean--”

“Yeah, we’ve done _things_ ,” Donald’s heated now. He’s too big for the couch to really make space for himself like Walter can, but damn does he want to give that punk some signals that he doesn’t approve of his mindset. Instead he just crosses his arms, letting them rest over his potbelly. “It’s possible to have sex without attaching a label to it, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hmm,” is all Walter adds.

“Furthermore,” Donald continues even though Walter isn’t even looking at him. “Furthermore... Everything you said is so contradictory-- why, why would you assume something like that?”

A socked foot winds its way to Donald’s chest. He still can’t believe that he’s begun getting used to seeing bell-bottoms again. “Have you ever considered taking it easy, Donald?”

Donald sighs and shoves Walter’s foot off of him. “You don’t give a flying fuck about anything, do you?”

Walter’s barking laugh makes him want to commit murder.  
  



	6. 1975 (kidfic)

  
Suddenly Walter is turned into a kid, maybe about six years old. It's pretty unmistakable that it's him, too, with those sloe eyes full of mischief and no facial hair to play down that unique face.

Don's surprised, but mostly worried, as Walter doesn't remember being an adult and definitely can't be much of a help to their band as a kid. They had several studio musicians slated to play tonight for a new record in the works that had been following deadlines tightly, so of course Don's not stopping for anything.  
He tells Walter he'll have to stay home-- which happens to be his own place, but when did either of them fully separate even when they rented their own apartments-- but Walter refuses. He wants to go with Donald, even after being told that he doesn’t have the authority to choose, at least not like this.

"I don't know if this is a good idea, but to hell with it.” Don’s red-faced in some weird sort of nerves and shame at having to kneel down to speak levelly with Walter, of all fucking people. And worse is that he looks so sweet and kind, which aren’t things Donald would ever ascribe to his best friend. “You need to know something, Wally-- if you go with me, everyone will be confused. You see, they're used to seeing you already. But as a big guy-- an adult."

Donald hadn’t realized he had held in his breath while watching Walter react to this information. The most that happens is his brows crease a little; he’s considering. And he does that anyways, even when he’s a big boy. Eventually, Walter pipes up, looking far more certain.

"I don't care! Take me with you."

"That's it? That's all you have to say in the face of quantum anomalies? You're made of sturdy stuff, kiddo."

"I know. Take me with you, Donnie!"

Donald takes off Walter's round, heavy specs in a fit of contemplation. "Do you look less like yourself this way?"

He ruffles Walter's hair to undo the way most of the musicians and engineers would recognize him by. It's virtually impossible, or maybe that's Don's line of thinking, seeing all this long brown hair and finding it synonymous with Walter's identity. Walter loudly whines in annoyance for the touch.

"Stoooooop! I can't see now!"

Donald is casually pulling Walter's glasses out of the kid's reach while assessing his work.

"Donnie-- give me my glasses! _Please_!"

When Donald brings Walter into the studio, surprisingly nobody considers Walter to be exactly who he is, even with the hair, even with the glasses. He's quiet, more so than usual, and if anyone gets too close, he hides behind Don.

"He's such a good kid, so polite and quiet!" One engineer- a total nobody filling in for one of the preferred regulars- remarks, reaching to pat Walter on the back or head. Walter ducks it like a trained ninja and goes to his self-designated spot behind Don, who is busy fiddling with a horn chart, swivel chair turning this way and that between the table with the horn chart and all the damn, messy studio equipment.

"He does that all by himself." Don allows a little bite to seep into his tone, not batting an eyelash at Walter gripping on to his shirt-backing for dear life. 

He actually gets kinda used to Walter’s clingy presence, enjoys the touch and considers it wholly for his own sake, rather than some sort of protective cocoon for Walter, who truly was the shyest little snot to ever grace the world.

Donald calls it quits way earlier than he'd normally like, mostly due to the studio musicians trying to flake out, he imagines. They all call foul on making Walter- a young boy- stay up this late, even though the kid is just fine. He'd been reading books and magazines that've been lying around the studio for months on end without complaint once everyone learned to steer clear of him.  
Donald also did his part in making sure they left him alone, privately pulling aside anyone who eyed Walter’s curled in form with that glint of trouble in their eye. The studio guys were never rowdier than at the prospect of sullying an innocent, apparently.

"You're fine, right?" Donald gives Walter a firm shake by the shoulder, and he eyes him in assessment, waiting for the answer, waiting for the green light to keep at it and use their studio hours wisely.

"I'm tired," Walter betrays Donald in an oddly serene tone, and that's that.  
  


* * *

  
"Alright, Wally," Donald starts, grabbing the pillow from under his arm to display it before Walter, who had been given a fairly inappropriate nightgown consisting of a ratty, over sized t-shirt that bore their band's logo. "This is _my_ pillow-- Diane isn't here today, but I think she has a six sense and if she caught wind that I gave a kid her pillow, she'd figure out. Somehow."

"Who's Diane?"

Donald pauses, eyeing Walter. He still can't believe Walter doesn't remember any of this. The two of them were good friends, for chrissakes! But Donald allows the question. He'd never forgive himself for being a cause of angst in Walter's life, especially if he came out of this experience, and doubly if he remembered how rotten Don was at warding him.

"She's my girlfriend, Wally."

" _Eww_!"

"Yeah, she thinks the same about you. That's why you gotta keep my pillow clean. Got that? No drooling, sneezing--" Walter's laughing now, and that smile that Don would usually describe as enigmatic at best gives way to something absolutely cherubic, little legs kicking along the edge of Don's sectional in glee. "Any type of bodily expulsions, I will not allow," Donald concludes in a fake droll tone.

Walter's still giggling, smile having grown toothy and eyes adoring. Donald feels himself smiling when he places the pillow on the couch and ruffles Walt's hair, still feels the smile deep in his cheeks after he says goodnight and even still when he closes his bedroom door.

"Ah man," he whispers to himself in the dark of his bedroom, letting out a sigh. "Shit."  
  



End file.
